


Of Lethe and Elysium

by PendersleighInGloom



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Character Study, Eerily Reminiscent of a Greek Tragedy, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Everything, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Very Strange Dream Sequences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PendersleighInGloom/pseuds/PendersleighInGloom
Summary: The future was full of new tales to write. The book was not yet filled. There was still time to grasp the discarded torch, light it with fresh fire, and carry it forth — he would be the man who trusted in goodness, so long ago.Thomas Hamilton finds himself beneath the English sun, the Atlantic storms, and the Georgian skies. He smiles at the seas, runs out to feel the rain, lives in his mind, and laughs with old spectres. He bathes in underworld rivers, speaks to the air, and counts the seasons. He journeys from Tartarus to Asphodel, to Elysium, and his Odysseus returns to lie in his arms. A love knows no bounds but the one that stretches from one life to another.





	1. Part One: The Old World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madness, Guilt, Love, _Hiraeth_. Bedlam abuse, Thomas Hamilton in the English countryside, Late-Night Ponderings, and a King from Greek Mythology.

**I.**

Conscience drove him to do it. Conscience, with his cold claws wrapped around his head, played him like a puppet, whispering empty comforts and violent evils in his ear; he was Eve in Eden, his mind the snake, the apple.

It was what madmen did, after all. And was he not mad? He had been looked upon like some animal, displayed for the crooked smiles and powdered wigs, a caged monster. They cooed at him, snickering and beckoning him; drunk noblemen, sneering lords, shy ladies, they all did. Certain days, he would see recognition flash across their eyes, some of them, as they offered a soft smile, turned their heads, and hurried away, out of some pity or another. Men and women from his salons. Dukes, biologists, socialites. He forgave them at first, just as he imagined they forgave him. The sight soon grew sore in his eyes. Later, he bore his teeth and growled, became the monster they thought him to be, laughed as they scuttled away in fright, their heels clacking against the cold floor. He’d watch the water drip, drop by drop, from the ceiling and smiled as it pooled between the cobblestones. He was a madman, after all, and it was what madmen did, was it not?

The nights, the endless nights, sleep never came. Perhaps she too was afraid to lay her hand on a man like him. It would explain the sleeplessness of the others, their screams until daybreak and their empty eyes. The girl beside his cell had sunken eyes and thin wrists. The man across from him would wake with heaving sobs and devolve to crazed laughter. The woman in the adjacent cell would cry out in pain at any slight sound - ears of glass or some malady. Gone now, all fled with time. But their words remained, echoing through the barren corridors. Old whispers and conspiracies, hopeless mumblings of “Do you think we would die if we bashed our heads on the wall enough?” And cold mutters of “I’d rather they beat my skull in than give me another ice bath - it’d get the demons out faster, eh?”

The grey guard would pace in the hall, jingling his keys, reaching his hand into a cell, and dangle them in front of the patients — prisoners, raw meat to dogs. The nights, he heard the guard’s heated grunts and the pained whimpers of his victims. Thomas knew what evils men with power tended to indulge. He saw him pour vials of death into the gruel, refused to eat on those days, counted his ribs as those days grew ever more common. Thomas despised this guard, wanted him dead, if such a thought was believable. He wanted to press his hands around the man’s neck, watch as white rings formed around his fingers and watch the white noose spread to his neck, laugh as his face turned bright red, about to burst. Madmen are violent, are they not?

 _“Do it_ ,” the voice whispered, “ _Do it, for all he did to you,”_

Thomas did not know this voice, did not know its owner nor had heard its tone and timbre before. But it was warm—silken, like honey. And he had nothing but bitter melancholy for years. He had known not the warmth of the summer night, but the cold of the winter day. Thomas let himself fall, fall deep down into the fabric of the voice, sink far beneath the surface. There, in its domain, the voice latched onto his mind, gouged its claws into his flesh.

 _“Do it,”_ it repeated, this time louder, a scream, “ _Do it! It’s what the bastard deserves! Do it!”_

So he did. He watched the white rings grow, spread, die. He laughed as he shook the dying guard, watching his face ripple and redden. The Lord gave, and now, by the hand of man, he hath taken away. Poetic, almost. Thomas was condemned; that was what he was told. How ironic that a sinner had killed — murdered one of God’s own men. A sodomite and now a murderer.

A murderer. Thomas Hamilton the murderer. They would hang him, he was certain. Was he at fault? The guard was a devil, and so Thomas had ended him, ended the suffering of those he had tormented. In the time of the Greeks, he would be marked a hero. In a moral sense, Thomas felt the weight on his chest, a quiet repressed ethic, but still beating under his skin. He had long thought the flame to be extinguished. He once spoke of a theory, in the salons, that upon death, a killer took on all the sins of his victim. Thomas didn’t feel any viler than the doctors made him feel. And there was time. A death cannot be undone, he had learnt this when he watched his mother wither away on the sick-bed, a blood-soaked handkerchief held to her lips as she coughed up more, skin pale and gaudy. He shook the memory from his mind. The future was full of new tales to write. The book was not yet filled. There was still time to grasp the discarded torch, light it with fresh fire, and carry it forth — he would be the man who trusted in goodness, so long ago.

 

**II.**

They came for the killer, quietly, in the night, all steely faces and clenched fists. Thomas rocked himself against the wall. There was no need to hide; the outcome would remain the same — a cold harsh death. No honour, no dignity. The rope around his neck. Their footsteps sounded in the hall. They echoed against the damp crevices of the stone floor.  Louder, louder, louder. It made his blood run hot in his ears. He barely noticed them slam open the door, hold him choked against a wall, shackle his hands. The stone tore through his shirt to his shoulders. His skin felt burnt where the stone had touched.

“No, sir, please. I am a reasonable man, I am a good man. I will not-”

A slap, a strike against his face. It stung.

“You’re coming with us,”

They ushered him through the cold halls, into a weathered wagon, their rough hands on his wounded shoulders. He cast a few sideward glances to the other passengers. One sneered at him. Another ran his hands over scars on his wrist. Thomas didn’t have to ask to know where those grown over scabs came from. Half-hidden behind a hay bale, the scent of shit and blood pressed into the wood panels of the cart, he hung his head and felt his tears run hot on his fingers. He had forgotten to struggle.

 

**III.**

They camped by the side of a road that night, with the driver standing guard. He had learnt the escorts were afraid of highwaymen. Thomas found that amusing. Why would they waste their time on a thin dust road to death? What value would a highwayman find in a cart of convicts and haystacks? They had no rations; they hunted fresh game and collected stream-water during the day. At nightfall they would stew the food, boil the water, and set camp in any field they could find. What kind of highwayman would waste his time to steal from the road to death, the path to the gallows?

Thomas refused to sleep that night. If he should die tomorrow, or the day after it, he would savour every fleeting moment until the lever was pulled, until he became another corpse on a cart. It was the only right thing to do. He gazed upwards. The moon hid behind a thin veil of clouds. Thomas wondered what mysteries lay beyond the little blinking dots, what curiosities lived in that darkness, the deep abyss, beyond the star-licked sky. He spoke of the constellations with old Etonian friends, once. Now he could see one, three stars dotted consecutively, small from where he lay. He had seen this one before, he was certain but without a line drawing the stars together, the name of it slipped his mind. He turned. The sharp scent of nearby grass came to him. Dampness seeped from the soil to his clothes, then to his skin. He sighed and turned his head to the sky again. There was an ineffable warmth in the darkness, a refuge to be found in the unknown. Had he spent so long as an outcast he found depravity kinder than virtue? Of course, he thought, he had lived through the dreadful age of the Puritans, known the pain of the light, known the incredible hypocrisy that was purity. Debauchery, he knew, was nothing more than the most human of desires painted evil and spat upon in shame. How scared must they be of human nature to deny the base instincts of their own brethren? No other animal did the same, Thomas noted. There was no shame in a pride of lions, no vehemence from a mother chick to her child. But despite these thoughts, Thomas was not partial to misanthropy. Hope stayed for him, through it all — by some miracle.

The convicts stayed in the wagon, but Thomas worked that dawn, stripping the skin off a rabbit. He found that now, mindless labour soothed his mind from hurt, assuaged the pain. He turned the rabbit over in his hands. He marvelled, though it was grotesque, at the way the muscle would separate from the fat, the tendon from the bone, the hide from the flesh. By some grace, this rabbit had been made, been slaughtered. It must have been free and joyous once.

“We’re not all that different, you and I,” He whispered to the carcass, working at it with a dull hunting knife, “They’ve hunted me too.” He paused, squinting at the rising sun, then shrugged, “Unbelievable, yes.” He set the knife down and began to yank the fur off with his hands. The shackles tugged against his raw skin. “The only difference between us; I lived, you didn’t. But there’s no need to worry, those I loved were caught in the snare too. Don’t feel too bad.” With a final pull, the skin finally came off the rabbit, taking with it a sheen of pearly blood.

He handed the creature to the driver, who threw it on the fire. He tossed him another.

“Get this one done before the sun’s up,”

Thomas nodded and slipped his blade under the skin. He worked at it hard, barely noticing the splashes of blood on his hands. There was dirt under his nails. He’d have to clean that. The hard sky stretched out above him. The heat pulsed in his ears. From the Greenwood, frantic hoofbeats emerged. They quieted. For a moment, he thought he had imagined the noise. Then, dust came flying on the path. Thomas glanced up, to see a rider approach. He halted in front of the wagon, dismounted, and called out,

“Sir! Sir!” He plucked a letter from his coat and walked to the driver, “Urgent news,  Mr Banes! They sent me through the night to have this for you,”

The rider couldn’t have been older than Thomas. He spoke with a nervous Wiltshire tone. Strands of wild black hair stuck to his red cheeks, now coated with sweat. His eyelashes fluttered nervously as he watched the letter pass from his hands. The driver, Mr Banes, grunted and broke the wax seal. The snap was clean.

“It is with the greatest sadness in my heart I send this news,” he trailed, murmuring little phrases and parts of words,

Thomas watched as his eyes widened at first, in confusion, then shock, and last, settled in resignation, his eyebrows still furrowed.

“From the Ashe estate,” the rider said, breathless, “Lord Ashe, he had it sent over the Atlantic almost two months ago,”

Banes paid the rider no mind, slowly turned to Thomas, folding the letter with his rough hands and muttered,

“It’s your day, Mr Hamilton,” he thrust the letter into Thomas’ hands, “You’re being transferred to a private madhouse in Dartford; your father’s dead,”

“Excuse me?”

Banes scoffed and kicked the dirt. “Suppose you’re happy ‘bout that, you degenerate.” He spat by the road and stalked off, muttering, “Fucking criminals,”

Thomas stood, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What?” He spun around, “Is this some kind of cruel trick?” He waved the rider over, “Is this an authentic letter?”

“Aye, sir.” he shrugged, “It’s his own seal and everything, sir,”

“But, if my father’s dead, that means,” he stuttered, not quite sure how to hold the letter in his hands; he had forgotten, “That means, that means-”

“It means,” the rider said, delicately unchaining his wrists and letting the shackles hit the ground, “You’re not going to the gallows.” He gave a sympathetic pat on Thomas’ back and returned to remount his horse.

 

**IV.**

They rode fast, chasing the rising sun, black silhouettes against a phoenix dawn. The rider, Thomas had learnt, was a gamekeeper on the DeVeaux estate, a family acquainted with the Ashes, by the name Henry Chase. Thomas held onto the saddle, gritted his teeth against the wind as the mare broke into a gallop. They flew by the countryside, greenery blurring into the hills, every birdsong growing fainter as they passed. He had forgotten the last time he felt euphoria like this, the last time he knew hope like this.

At noon, they stopped to rest, in the shade of an elm on a small hill. Chase unlatched his bag to pull out a bundle of dried meat, neatly tied together with frayed twine.

“Didn’t want to get hungry on the road.” He explained, “Hunted and dried a rabbit a few days ago.” He began untying the string. “You care for some?” He offered a strip of the meat to Thomas.

Thomas accepted it, with a shaky hand. He thanked him, awkwardly — he had forgotten how men were meant to behave. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Thomas gazed out across the meadow. The sunlight skidded on the pond — too bright. Perhaps he had just become accustomed to the darkness inside Bedlam. He squinted, chewing with reckless abandon. No need for etiquette, no one was there to pick out every single misstep he made, every little flaw in his manner. And Chase didn't seem to mind. In fact, he was eating with the same voracity. The grass Thomas sat on was wet, still speckled with the morning dew. It didn't bother him. He expected it didn't bother Chase either. He seemed the kind of man who had seen his share of adversity.

It was a quiet Hellenic idyll for a moment, the stagnant water, the damp grass, the sunlight caught between the leaves of the low branches. Pale rocks by the pond. Like the stones of Athens. Thomas laid back on the hill, the stiff grass bending beneath his weight, and closed his eyes. Chase broke the silence.

"If you don't mind me askin', sir-"

"Thomas. Call me Thomas. There’s no need pretend we are not equals out here," he drawled.

Chase nodded, tentative.

"Thomas, what had had you in trouble with the law?" He picked at a patch of grass, "From nowhere, Ashe, I think his name is, sends a letter across the Atlantic — gives me an order to ride to Mr Banes and pardon you. They don't forgive bedlamites that quick where I'm from, "

Thomas swallowed. Whatever question he expected Chase to ask, it was not this. He wanted to run, wanted to close his eyes and forget his ghosts — Peter’s twitchy fingers, his father’s vile grin, love and loss. He wanted the memories to flee — the night he cut his arms and lay himself down, reciting Aurelius, and waited to die. When Death refused to take him. When the guard yanked his hair and finished in his mouth. When he tried to scrub the taste from his tongue with icy bath-water.

“My father, he sent me to that place, the hospital,” Speaking of it brought a sting, but he continued, “He is, _was_ a very influential man. He punished me for a crime so simple as loving the wrong person, if you can believe such a thing. He sent me to Bethlem.” Thomas pulled a handful of grass from the ground, plucking the green blades from their roots and tearing them to pieces. It felt poetic in a way he couldn’t explain. “In that wretched place, I killed a man - not quite a man, a devil. He hurt me in ways I can’t speak of. He hurt innocents in ways I can’t think of.” He turned to Chase. “They would say I went mad. I would agree. But madness is such a fickle thing,”

Chase moved closer to him, their thighs barely touching. Thomas looked into his eyes.

“When the whole world believes you a monster, it is all you will ever be,”

Chase swallowed and took his hand.

“And Ashe?” he asked.

“We were friends,” the word brought a sting even now. Despite the passage of time, the memory didn’t ease. Ashe had traded friend for a post — what kind of man did that? What kind of man sold out his own for a job, for power, for a social standing? At least he had the kindness to grant Thomas a pardon, a passage from Bedlam to a better place, more comfortable, kinder — at least he hoped. A memory came to his mind. A picture, then more. Images of salty rooms by the docks and a soft sea breeze, of sharp-tongued banter in the salons, of James and Miranda, a family linked not by blood but by love alone, how he missed them! How he wished they were still living so that he had even a chance of seeing them again, of loving them again. Hope can hurt more than the joy it can give. He had learnt that in the Bedlam cell when Peter came, when he stood proud, all titles and power, but no man behind the façade. Those soulless eyes. He had learnt pain when he said those words,

_“They’re gone Thomas, James and Miranda are dead,”_

He had felt like he was cut, deep, deeper than flesh and bone, deeper than his own body — he felt cut right through his soul. The shock, the ripping of his flesh, the tearing of his heart. The numbness.

He brushed his hands of the grass. A string of dirt clung to his palm.

“I can’t say more, I can’t bear to, I hope you understand,” he whispered and shook his head slightly.

They left the meadow soon after, Chase mounting the mare and offering a hand to Thomas. The countryside was lonely, Thomas noticed. There were no other riders, no carriages nor wagons, no souls except the little creatures scuttling about in the fields. How free they were! How free the bunnies were to run, to love, to survive! The snakes in the grass lived by the day, with no burden of guilt, shame, nor duty. Thomas wished he was free. But there was freedom in loneliness, wasn’t there? Cautiously, with a sharp breath, he slid his arms around Chase’s waist. He didn’t resist the advance, rather welcomed it, slowing the mare to a trot and running his hands over Thomas’ own. Thomas almost cried; he had not known such tender touch for years.

They came across the tavern at nightfall. Chase found them a room — ‘the upstairs has but one room left, I’m deeply sorry, m’lord’ he recounted a maid’s words to Thomas at the stables, setting the horse in a stall. He shovelled some hay for her.

They shared a bed that night. Chase slept easily, out of exhaustion, Thomas fathomed. But sleep never came for him. He lay awake by the dim candle, reciting his literature; Cicero, Spinoza, Plato, anything and anyone, hoping the words remained true on his tongue. _“Vita enim mortuorum in memoria vivorum est posita.”_ — the life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living. He had forgotten much of Hamlet, forgotten much of the Shakespeare, but remembered the Marlowe, the Faustus and the Massacre. At the witching hour, he spoke the words of Aurelius, spoke the Greek as a true Athenian would, gasping as tears ran down his cheeks and stained the bed.

Chase grumbled. Thomas froze.

“Is there anything wrong, Thomas?” He rolled over, the blanket skating over his skin. The frame gave to his weight beneath him, creaking.

In the warm candlelight, Thomas could see clearer. Sweat laced Chase’s cheeks, his forehead. Thomas let his gaze travel across his face. Thomas saw his eyes, now that they were closer; though they were a common shade, a sly glint lay under them. His undershirt had shifted in the night to reveal the soft shadow of his collarbones under the fabric.

“I heard you muttering,” he said, a whisper of a smile dancing on his lips.

“Only poetry, Chase, I’m afraid,” Thomas replied.

“Henry,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“You said to call you ‘Thomas.’ I want you to call me Henry, not Chase. It’s the same idea.” He brought himself closer to him and whispered, breath grazing his cheek. He smelt of hunting-grounds and earth. The sheets rustled beneath them. “Say it, say my name,”

“Henry,” he said, letting his lips curl in a smile. It felt sweet on his tongue. Strange, but sweet nonetheless.

Henry smiled too, gazed into his eyes, then pulled himself closer so he could whisper to Thomas’ ear. There was a shuffling of the sheets as Henry came, wrapping his arms around Thomas’ neck, a hand in his hair. He didn’t resist. They stayed there for a moment, a moment perhaps too long, Henry’s gasps and sighs gracing Thomas’ neck. The heat trickled to his shoulders. Thomas could feel the rise and fall of his chest against him. The sea and the moon.

“I want you to kiss me,” Henry whispered finally, his voice husky, his lips parted by a sliver. “Please, Thomas, kiss me,”

Before he could think, his own hand had cupped Henry’s cheek and brought their lips together, clashing so fiercely yet gently as the rolling tide. He felt as if his soul were open, felt as if it had burst free of a stitched wound, felt as if it were flesh and blood itself, breathing Henry’s warmth to thaw its own winter. For a moment he stopped, felt a tendril of darkness slip through his heart, a distress pump through his veins. Henry clutched his back and urged him to continue. He sighed and let himself melt into Henry’s arms. How long since someone had touched him like this? With passion and care? He needed it, the touch alone. It made him real, connected him to to world in this realm of phantoms. It felt new, foreign almost, like an old friend returning from sea, the salt still in his hair. Henry’s hand travelled down.

“No, wait-” Thomas jerked away. His breaths came hard. For a long moment, he grew too aware of his own thumping heartbeat. _What would James think of this? Miranda?_ Shame wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed, pressed so hard guilt rushed through his body faster than his blood.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Henry shifted up to his elbows.

As the silence faded, faint chattering rose from below the floorboards. The clinking of pitchers on wood sounded through the inn. The walkway by the door creaked.

“If we are caught,” he began, “I don’t know what will lie in wait for either of us,” It was a diversion from his truth, but an easy lie lived better than a hard reality.

“We won’t be,” Henry hushed, “Just-” he sighed into Thomas’ ear, “let me,”

Thomas swallowed. He laid back and shut his eyes. Shut them too hard. The darkness swam. He expected warmth but was greeted with nothing. He wanted the heat and the touch, longed for it, but he could not feel it — he was hollow. Old ghosts held onto his heart, perhaps he could not love again until he reached the River Styx with an obol under his tongue. He felt Henry pressed against him. He felt darkness linger over his head. _James._ With one last breath, Henry stilled, giving a quiet laugh. He sighed one last time, then held Thomas in his arms tight, breaths rising with the sun.

Thomas grimaced, with a hand still in Henry’s hair and his chin nestled in the crook his shoulder. He stared out the window and to the sunrise. God forgive me, he thought, as the dew slid down the windows. A traitor to the light and a traitor to an old lover. He felt an emptiness within himself. He felt false. What would James have thought? Bile rose in his throat. He sobbed in silence.

 

**V.**

Thomas arrived in Dartford late Sunday night. He and Henry whispered a hasty goodbye, arms around each other. The mare pawed at the dirt behind them. The guards led him into the parlour, one not unlike the one in the London house. They sat him down in a chair, a pretty one, he supposed. Mahogany arms, stitched seat, but a seam re-sewn more than once.  He was shackled, despite his protests — a precaution, he was told. Thomas crossed his legs and traced the carved arm of the chair. In it, he could almost make out the tail of a mermaid, her mouth cracked in a scream. Intricate, but eerie. Cork red marble columns ran up to a flecked ceiling. Laurels sat at their bases. There was a faint muttering from the next room. The wax of the candles smelt greasy in the heat. A man slipped an order to the guards.

“Take him to the winter-room. A letter’s just arrived. He’ll be set to leave Wednesday morning, with the ship,”

There were hands on him again, ushering him up the staircase as it bent beneath his step, pushing his feet up on the grey carpet. He tripped. They yanked him up. There was a hallway of white doors. All locked. They led him into one. He stood for a moment, gaping at the room: ivory wallpaper, a varnished bed-frame, pale green curtains. An air of luxury about it, but a cold aura. It was, after all, the winter-room. He supposed the Lord of the manor had a value for aesthetics. He paused, sighing. It was a comfort to him, but it was not a rich man’s chamber. He stepped to the walls. The paint flecked and crumbled beneath his touch. He threw back the blankets. They had holes in them. The lock clicked behind him, with a jangle of keys. He collapsed on the bed, sank into it, and sighed. Its dusty musk filled the room. He gazed out the window. It was barred. A pretty madhouse was still a madhouse.

 

**VI.**

His mind, even asleep, did not remain still for long. Images came to him in the night, voices. First, the soft strumming of lyre strings, feather-light caresses upon his face. His eyelids were heavy, closing his vision in a darkness. He struggled against it. The lyre began again, only to fade. With the music now gone, the world closed on him. His breath was the only sound he heard. Harsh against his ear. He turned his head, The dampness of fresh grass brushed against his face, a cool scent. From above, he felt a presence. Ghostly. He reached out, grasped the pale wrists. They dissipated under his touch. He had almost expected grey bone beneath the melting flesh. The music grew louder, a rolling piano melody — arpeggios, the wood of the keys clicking fast.

_“Thomas!”_

He knew that voice. He had heard it warm and cool, heard it argue philosophy to perfection, heard it in his ear in their marriage bed, heard it ring out in the salons, heard it fraught with tears as they faced their darkest hours. From his eyes, the weight lifted. The weak wall crumbled with stone crashing to the ground. He turned and saw her. The world fell silent. The birds swallowed their songs in their throats, the piano clicked one last note, the lyre quieted. She smiled at him, the face she saved for him alone. Her hair was loose in the wind. She wore an ivory chiton. There were wrinkles by her eyes. Older now. At the ends of the earth, they stood, reaching out towards each other. A sharp grey mist rose from the ground.

 _“Miranda,”_ he breathed, _“Miranda, how I’ve missed you,”_

_“Oh, Thomas, how I wish you hadn’t turned,”_

The mist grew, morphed into a heavy fog. She began to crumble, faded into the air. The ground beneath them tore, left a chasm where she stood.

 _“Miranda!”_ he cried, _“Miranda!”_ No sound came from his throat. _“Miranda!”_ He screamed once more, then fell to the earth, ripping a patch of wilting daffodils from its roots. He sobbed. Soil found its way onto his tongue. Its chalkiness hit the back of his throat.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Steady, but with a trembling undercurrent. A heavy cuff rested on his back.

_“She’s gone, Thomas”_

_“James?”_

He was still in his uniform. Fields of green stretched behind him, stalks swaying in the wind like the eternities of Elysium. Thomas blinked. They were gone.

 _“It’s been far too long.”_ He offered a hand to him, _“Walk with me,”_

Thomas scrambled up and looked around. The ground beneath him was no longer grass and mud, but grey stone and pale sand. The white sunlight grew brighter. He shielded his eyes. The yellow dust clung to his skin.

 _“Do you recognise this place? We spoke of a life here — in another time, in another day, naught but our books and our beliefs to keep us company. In my rooms by the docks, do you remember?”_ James asked, walking at a maddeningly slow pace. He took Thomas’ hand in his own.

_“The Acropolis of Athens,”_

_“This is the Greek legacy. The Athenian future. When the Greeks fell, they left this behind.”_ He paused, running his hand across the columns, its marble still cool in the summer heat. He let go of Thomas’ hand, stepping to the shade of a collapsed cornerstone. _“When you fall,”_ he called, _“What will you leave behind?”_

Thomas stopped. The wind rustled by.

 _“You know it’s nothing they’ll thank me for,”_ he said, _“You know that is not the man I am.  I will leave no tales of glory, no words of kindness, there is nothing I will be remembered for.”_ He turned to the sandstone floor. _“I never cared for any of it, but in the past days, there’s something I’ve come to know,”_

_“What is that?”_

_“If I suffer in silence, then what do I suffer for? If I cannot find a purpose in this pain then I am not the man I claim I am. I am broken, I am detested, but I will not be silenced.”_ He paused, looking into James’ eyes, _“I will not be confined to the quiet dark when my words ache for the wings and melodies of freedom. If no one should hear my story, if no lessons are learnt from my pain, if no good comes from it, all this would have been for nothing, don’t you understand? We_ _would have been for nothing,”_

The breeze stilled. A black raven perched on a column-top and screeched. For a moment, Thomas saw a wetness by James’ eyes. He reached out, an instinct only, but James shook his head. Leaves rustled, despite the open skies above them. From the columns, shadows came to life — men and women lost to history. They moved around them but left no sound. The ghosts of the Acropolis. Dark residue filled the air they walked in. Thomas’ gaze followed a figure. Ivory satins and an earthy myrrh dripped from it. The scent wafted by. It burnt his nostrils. He broke the silence.

 _“James,“_ He said as his gaze trailed slowly back from the strange scene — full of life, yet so hauntingly hollow. _“James-”_

There was a finger on his jaw, a light caress — sudden, brushing over the stubble on his chin, a thumb lingering on his cheek. Before the name left his lips, James pressed to Thomas’ chest, pulled him flush against himself, feeling its rise and fall like a ship tossed by the ocean, a hand clutching at the thin cloth of his linens. Thomas looked into his eyes, beyond them, and felt what he hadn’t for so long — ineffably, home. James kissed the edge of his lips, and winter melted. Then, with a newfound ferocity, James brought their lips together again, joined in one. Their breaths came hard as they stood, locked in this embrace for a past and a future.

 _“Thomas, never forget what I am about to say. Hold it close to your heart and feel it beat with your blood. Know that it is closer to your being than your soul itself,”_ James whispered to his ear, now clutching his hair and a hand resting on his neck. _“This you must know.”_ He held him harder, too afraid to lose him _,_ voice choked and raw. _“I love you.”_  A tear stained Thomas’ collar, then another, and another, and another, until he himself became the very sea James loved like his lifeblood.

 _“I’ve missed you so much, I couldn’t bear it,”_ Thomas said, his fingers finding their way under James’ coat and slipping the heavy blue cloth to the ground. Dust flew as it landed on the old stone.

 _“I know, my love, I know. And I’ve missed you, and I will miss you, for this day to the end of days, for each day you are not with me, and I am not with you,”_ A breeze came by, unstuck James’ long hair from his freckled cheeks, brushed them in front of his eyes. It carried with it the freshness of a new spring. His fingers found Thomas’ own, and they laced together tight, a promise.

 _“From this day to the end of days,”_ Thomas repeated, tears now falling from his eyes as slow as a soft rain, coming down upon James’ warm hands like a storm.

 _“From this day to the end,”_  His fingertips receded, hanging at his side. He reached for Thomas’ chin, tilted it, and kissed him again, with the instinct of an old lover who knew he’d soon be gone. Thomas smiled, swallowing, and returned the kiss, shoulders raised as he cradled his face in both hands, brought them closer together.

The columns then bent, the stone disappearing from sight as smoothly as still water in a forest stream. The Acropolis was gone. The bank of a black river lay before them. Nothing but forest wood stood behind them. The raging current, black even when shallow, quietly ate away at the riverbank. The strong birches overshadowed them both.

It was James who turned away, now focused on this new world.

 _“What is this? Where are we?”_ Thomas whispered. His eyes darted from one branch to another, from an eroded rock to a driftwood oak. His lips were still red.

He took a cautious step into the river.

_“Don’t-”_

The cool water hugged his foot. He stepped again.

_“Thomas, please. We are almost there, to the fields. Please-”_

The current swept his shoes from his feet. His toes sunk into the tight warm sand of the riverbed.

 _“James, what is it?”_ He turned, gesturing for him to join him.

 _“I can’t cross, Thomas,”_ he said, voice now soft and broken.

 _“What do you mean?”_ he asked.

 _“I can’t cross._ ” James shook his head and let his hand slip from Thomas’ grasp, _“I can’t continue any longer,”_

_“No-”_

James began to fade, his hands dissipating into the air first, _“Promise you’ll find me, Thomas,”_ he said, hopelessness in his eyes. _“Promise me, we’ll find the fields,”_ As the mist ate up his body, from his long limbs to his chest, one word lingered, the last from his lips: _Please_.

With that, he was gone.

Thomas looked down. The river tripped over his ankles, the water lapping at his calves. _James._ He tried to run, run to the ashes lost to the wind, but the mud kept his feet in the water. He thrashed, screamed, cried. Finally, perhaps as a mercy, the waters swallowed him. He slipped under the riverbed, the sands and stone making way for his weight. The wet sand was heavy, scratching against his eyes. Under the river, he became encased in the rock.

 _“Thomas, I’ve been expecting you. Quite some time, too,”_ A voice sounded from the depths. He imagined what its owner would look like — handsome, homely, erudite. Bright hair, weary eyes, tall back. Too many rings on his fingers but a tenderness beneath them, too many smiles on his face but a darkness lurking in his heart.

_“Who are you?”_

_“I am Lykos, born of ancient lands and ancient words, laid to rest at the river Lethe, refusing Asphodel, not yet at Elysium. But it is no matter. You deserve the paradise of your time. I will keep you right, by the laws of your world and the laws of your land,”_

A white-hot pain tore through his body. His legs shook, his bones cracked, talons ripped flesh from his chest. The stones pressed down harder.

_“I will keep you safe,”_

He opened his mouth to speak. The wet sand fell into his throat, like sludge. It filled his lungs.

_“Trust me. You will be better for it.”_

Jagged rocks struck his back.

_“I will guide you back to the light,”_

Mud hardened around him, a shell.

_“Listen for my voice in the dark Thomas, I will guide you back to the light,”_

His body rushed to the surface, the scales of sand and stone falling away. The pebbles, the weeds, the sand, the mud, they all parted like the Red Sea as he rose above the current.

_“Gaze into the darkness, Thomas. Then will you hear what you long to know. There are souls trapped in the darkness, Thomas, fighting for your ear. Open your mind to them,”_

Thomas felt the breeze grace his cheek again. He sighed, letting the current wash him to the riverbank. His sopping wet linens tethered him to the round rocks of the ground. He gasped, catching his breath, wiping salt and sand from his face, not minding as it tore at his skin.

 _“Now drink, drink to be purged, to forget it all,”_ Lykos whispered, _“Drink from the river Lethe,”_

Thomas paused for a moment to regain his breath.

 _“Drink!”_ Lykos shrieked, his voice rising to a shrill whistle.

So Thomas did. He cupped his hands and brought the waters to his mouth. He let them run down his neck and to his sleeves. When he had his fill, he slumped back onto the riverbank, chest heaving with the frantic lull of the thrashing waves. As his consciousness faded, one word rang loud and sharp in his mind: _James._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fanfiction, and I hope I'm doing a passable job. Any feedback, comments, or concerns are welcomed. I will be updating this piece. If you'd like to have a chat, my Tumblr is pendersleigh-in-gloom.
> 
> Next Up: The Atlantic, Conscience, and Newfound Freedom.
> 
> Part Two Preview:
> 
> _A ship has a soul, James once told him. Regents Park, was it? Or Hyde? Thomas didn’t remember. He watched the small waves crash into the ship and wondered how many worlds the darkened planks had sailed, how many lives the sails had watched run by. Would the mast remember him? The steady conifer mast, would she remember him? She had seen many lords in her life, he fathomed, many lords in Venetian velvets and self-assured smiles. He ran his hands along his coat. Would she think him a lord or a commoner? A merchant perhaps, or a mariner? A new life in the new world, unbounded by the laws of the old. A new man._
> 
> \- D.


	2. Part Two: The Half World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apathy, Uncertainty, Conscience, Belief. The past, old lovers, the Atlantic, theological discussions with a hallucinated embodiment of internalised shame, and a few pretty ocean descriptions.

**VII**.

They left out of a port in Southend-on-Sea, Friday morning, the wind at their necks, the sky painted a gentle blue. Georgia, was it? The new world. He was alone now, but free on the open ocean. The dim lantern cast a long shadow on the floorboards. His cabin was lit a soft orange. He lay back on his bed — less of a bed and more of a cot, a hammock? He was thankful for it.

“Say their names,” the ghostly fingers on his neck urged, stroking into his streaky hair, “Say their names,”

Thomas stopped. His mind had been quiet the past days, save its fiery screams as the ship rolled over stormy waves. But when the seas calmed, he too stilled, slumping in his bed, listening to whispers and feeling for soft fingers in his hair. Listening to this faint voice low and steady in his head.

“Say their names,” Lykos murmured, breathy in his ear, “You know you’ll have too. It is the only way you will find rest, find peace,” he pressed close to Thomas, “It is the only way _they_ will find peace,”

Thomas curled, reaching for Lykos’ hand, breathing hard. He found it cold — the hand of a spectre, an apparition. Almost a claw. But still, it was soft.

Thomas had not spoken those names in years. He had thought them, let them sing loud in his mind, but when they dared reach his lips, he’d swallow them back. They would have burned his tongue to speak. But he gazed out as the ship rocked on the waves, the waves hugged the hull, and the hull whispered old words, whispered to him secrets in the cracks of the boards and the feral tide. On the wild Atlantic, he swallowed hard, tried to force the names from his throat. They wouldn’t rise.

“Damn you,” He whispered, to himself or to the silken voice, he did not know, “Damn your soul to hell,”

Drinking down a bottle of rum the captain had left him, he fell back, sobbing, into a smooth voice and cold fingers. He cried quietly as sleep came for him, Lykos hushing sweet nothings in his ear. This phantom with a name.

 

**VIII.**

A month had passed on the ship before Thomas began to truly wonder about the man lurking in the corners of his mind. He was a strange sight, paler than ghosts, with a head of red hair almost too bright. He was attractive, Thomas thought, as he ran a finger down a varnished table-leg, shadows dancing in the candlelight. Or perhaps he just reminded him of long-dead lovers. His hair was only a shade browner than James’. But Lykos, he was different — distant, as if he lay on the side of a veil Thomas couldn’t reach. It was as if he was only breaths away, as if Thomas could feel the ridges of his fingertips through a satin screen, but never touch them.

He stood in the doorway to deck, a foot on the stairwell, a foot on the salt-stained planks — in half-worlds. Half-awake and half-alive. Often, there were too many halves to keep track of. His splintered soul. The sky was bright, but not too bright to hurt his eyes. He had grown accustomed to the dark in Bedlam. He shivered. Despite his coat, the cold still managed to seep down to his bones. It was an insidious feeling. But the sailors, sweat glistened on their bare arms, impervious to the chill. It was as if a moment of summer had found its way onboard the ship.

In the midst of the commotion, Thomas found a flash of red hair at the bow.

“Lykos!” He called out, “Lykos? Please, I need to speak with you, as a matter of urgency,”

A sailor turned to him, matted brown beard and creased eyes. A cigar stained his breath.

“Who the fuck is Lykos?”

He pronounced the name with a clunky skid on the consonants.

“Red hair? Sails under the sun, but by some phenomenon, still pale?” Thomas scrambled. “He’s got a- he has a very distinct voice. Like a dark wind,”

“You speak like a fucking poet,” The sailor said, wiping his hands with a grimy rag and slinging it over his shoulder. It landed on his hard back with a loud slap. “But the man — never seen him. We might have picked him up last stop, but he’s not a crewman,” He said, shouting an order to the cabin boys below deck as an afterthought. The boom of his voice rung in Thomas’ ears. “Now,” he said, clapping Thomas on the back, “I’d better get back to my station. Good-day,”

From the prow, Lykos gave a knowing smile. He leaned against the sides of the ship. Thomas gasped.

“There! There he is!” Thomas called, pointing at him. The sailor froze a moment, then chuckled, twisting the rag in his fingers.

“You’re pointing at air, mate,” he gave Thomas a pat on the back. It stung. “Too much to drink, eh?” He laughed. “Captain Twain’s known to have passengers drink past their fill-“

“I’m not drunk! I know he’s there, I’m not mad!” Thomas bit, gesturing, now frantic, “I see him!”

Lykos smirked, walking towards him.

“Look! He’s coming towards us!”

“Right,” the sailor dipped his head, “you’re going back to your quarters. I’ll tell the captain to go softer on the rum,”

Thomas struggled, breath coming heavy as his feet struck hard against the stairway. Just as he reached the base, he looked from the interior out to deck: Lykos stood in the blue-lit door-frame, with an innocent tilt of his head, but a wicked grin behind his eyes. Thomas gulped. His skin caught on the splintered beams as he collapsed.

 

**IX.**

Thomas awoke to a bitterness against his tongue. His throat burned. Bitter and acerbic. Laudanum. He’d grown sick of it in the hospital. The ceiling swayed. He was warm, for the first time since how long? He couldn’t remember. Even in the inn that night, with Henry, the blanket scratched against his skin — kept the cold on him and the heat pressed against the icy windows, turned to dew. He threw his legs over the bedside and stared idly down at his feet. He didn’t want to think about it.

A candle stood lit by his bedside. In the small flame, an ancient light danced, as ferocious as Greek fire, but gentle as Hestia’s hearth. Fire like the furnace at the London manor. The fire that burned itself into his eyes as they took him away, ripped him from his roots, from Miranda’s arms. The fire that raged, trapped behind the glass, as he scrawled the final inscription — _Know no Shame._ As the inkwell spilt on his cuff and the pen-tip snapped under his shaking hands. _“Take care of him. Keep him from his rage. Keep yourselves safe. Please, Miranda, promise me. Make your lives without me, make your way together, promise me,”_ As the ink slunk under his skin and into his blood, as the soaked cloth was pressed over his mouth, as he fell, on the brink of consciousness, to the hard floor, a shattered plate gashing open his calf. As the tincture on the handkerchief dulled his mind. As Miranda’s screams, the shouting, the noise, the dinner, and the book all faded away. There was only the lonely flame. When his eyes fell shut, the flames still danced on the cracking wood. All that remained was the fire.

A drop of wax fell onto his bare thigh. The shock was unpleasant. The burn was not. Thomas licked his fingers and pinched the wick. Too many ghosts on this ship. The candle died.

 

**X.**

_Addressed to one Mr Hamilton,_

_It has come to my knowledge that you are a man of learning. And though I am a merchant, I would think to hold myself in that regard of educated men. I have not seen you surface from your cabin the entirety of this journey, and I have that belief which a life lived in darkness is no life at all. As men educated in the ways of the world, I would hope to exchange words with you, on any topic, perhaps even literary. I would be very glad to enjoy your company. I have not the means to accommodate you at dinner — I dine with my crewsmen, but if you perchance have a spare moment, I would be most interested to delight in your conversation._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Captain Jonathan Twain, of the Hephaestion-Eloise_

 

**XI.**

He never spoke to the captain. He felt himself too tired to engage in conversation; he found that now, words came difficult onto his tongue, and that ideas formed weak in his mind. It was a loss he felt he should have cared more for, but found no part of himself caring for it. Apathy ruled him. The once green fields turned grey under its hands, lush flower-beds wilted beneath its touch. And as this virus ate up his intellect, consumed his prior knowledge, burnt his passion to ash, Thomas felt nothing.

 

**XII.**

A ghost whispered from the edges of his sleep. The skeleton faces of his fellow patients, murmuring in low voices. For a moment Thomas thought it only the dawn mumblings of the crew. Every corridor in his mind held a demon, every step carried an uncertainty of his own sanity. He rolled to his side, pressed a hand to his ear, and swallowed. _No more. No more. No more. Quiet, now. Quiet!_

 

**XIII.**

****The ship creaked under his feet. Step by step, the salt-soaked boards bent beneath his gait. His legs shook. The hard leather of his boots scratched against his toes. He remembered how difficult it was to break in leather. How long had it been since he had gotten new shoes? Had a year passed since he last saw the free sun alone, breathed ocean air, seen the full horizon? Had two passed? Had three? More? Time had forgotten herself inside Bedlam. Days blurred, months, years. He stopped counting the rounds the guard made by his cell. The screams of the mad girl became his dawn’s rooster call. How many times had winter seeped into summer and autumn into spring?

 _A ship has a soul,_  James once told him. Regents Park, was it? Or Hyde? Thomas didn’t remember. The trees would scatter the sunlight across their faces. James was beautiful in the sunlight. Thomas watched the small waves crash into the ship and wondered how many worlds the darkened planks had sailed, how many lives the sails had watched run by. Would the mast remember him? The steady conifer mast, would she remember him? She had seen many lords in her life, he fathomed, many lords in Venetian velvets and self-assured smiles. He ran his hands along his coat. Would she think him a lord or a commoner? A merchant perhaps, or a mariner? A new life in the new world, unbound by the laws of the old. A new man.

He had awakened early that morning, as the sun breached the horizon, dressed, and found his way to deck, careful not to wake the sleeping sailors below. The winds were cold, the air biting at his face as the bow cut clean through the water. He looked over the edge. He stared at the barnacles clinging to the hull, their little white shells unfazed by the lapping waves. Nature always finds a way to survive, does it not? Survival was not a radical idea.

It was an irony, almost. He had wished for so much in Bethlehem, wished for his Cicero, his Aurelius, his death, his comfort, his freedom. He had wanted it all in those ever smaller walls, whispering dreams into cobblestone floors and hopes into tear-stained sleeves. Now he was faced with the empty seas, found that all his desires had dissipated. What would he want, now that he forgot all he had? What would he dream of, now that all he had were a few wilting lines of poetry and an endless ocean? Thomas sighed and turned to face the sails, their cream canvasses fluttering in the breeze.

“Dear God! What have you left me with, but despair?” He cried, calling out to the sea. “The blue sky, how can you bear the sun each passing day? To the wind, the knowledge I once held has fled on your wings. Do you understand I have nothing left? Nothing!” He gasped to catch his breath, then placed his forearms on the edge, and slumped over, sobbing. “Take my tears, if you must, for they are all I have left,”

He breathed heavy, his mind a sick haze as the ship rocked on the high seas. The morning sun brushed his tears away with soft hands. Thomas was thankful for it. He rubbed his eyes and watched, silent, as the grey clouds parted for the bright day. _I will endure. I will survive._

 

**XIV.**

That night he retired to his cabin. Dark and rank, as always with salt casing the room like snow. The captain had left a candle a book, and a half-filled pitcher of rum by his bedside. Perhaps he wished to discuss it before they made land. Thomas knew the drink would be too harsh; it would burn his throat, but he cupped the pitcher in both hands and drank it down like a dying man nevertheless. Quelled his hurt and dulled his pain. Silenced the ghosts. _No more, no more, no more._  It had been years since liquor had last graced his lips. Unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Feeling the drink pool in his belly, shivering at the warmth it gave and the cold it vanquished, Thomas climbed into the bed and waited for sleep to come.

 

**XV.**

In the days leading up to landfall, Thomas would leave his bed before dawn, in the wake of a fierce terror or another. The night was chaos. The morning was calm. He lived in the place between darkness and day, where the sea met the sky. Half-worlds. It was at dawn when he would lean over and talk to the ship, tell her all his pains, his woes, his worries. It was dusk when he would re-emerge from his cabin, nod to the watchman, and feel the cool night touch upon his cheek.

Darkness fell quickly. He tossed a stone over the ship and into the waters, watching it dip beneath the waves. In the moonlight, the ocean gleamed as black as ink. Thomas let his gaze flick up. The stars. Silent and elegant sentinels. He wondered what it would be if a star died. Something so apparently eternal withering away. A cosmic mother taking her last breath. There is an inherent flaw in mankind that we assume comfort in permanence. Thomas had realised this when he was taken. Happiness did not last. And it is not guaranteed. He should have known, should have believed it deeper. Now it had written itself into the very nature of his mind. He sighed. No time for regret. No time to rage about the past. He did not seek to endure what had been done to him with a facade of joy upon his face. He simply had no capacity for rage. He wanted to scream, felt one lodged beneath his throat, felt free to let go on the open ocean, but when he opened his mouth to, the sound would not come.  It was as if he had stowed his anger away, along with his pain, bolted the door, and now found it impossible to open. Perhaps it was for the best. The tale of Pandora and her box. He flicked another pebble overboard. Returned to the sea.

 

**XVI.**

Three days later they found land. Boston harbour. The open and willing mouth of the new world. Ships entering her parted lips in a steady stream, plenty of merchants and traders in the port. It was still a ways off. Thomas squinted. From where he stood at the prow, leaning slightly over the gunwale, he could see land, its murky silhouette as thin as a string in the distant sunrise, the flickering morning-light casting the unsteady waters in a golden silk. Like a mirage.

Though they were only metres behind him, the muddled cries of the crew grew quiet in Thomas’ ears, the shrill song of the seabirds fading into the background, a part of the scenery. Thomas felt himself part of a play. The sunrise only continuing, and the small strip of land growing as they approached as if being made in front of their eyes, he felt a belt of cold wrap around his waist, snaking up to his chest.

“It has been some time since we spoke, Thomas,” Lykos murmured, resting his chin on Thomas’ shoulder. “I’ve come to see how you’re doing,”

Thomas hummed absently and rubbed his knuckles. 

“You-“ he started, his brows furrowed, “You aren’t real, are you?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean,” Thomas began again, “You can’t be physical, can you? You’re not real,”

“Is God real?” Lykos quipped.

“What do you mean-“

“I know you spoke of this idea once. It is why you do not subscribe to religion yet respect those who do,” He pressed his cool cheek against Thomas’ warm neck. The contact made him shiver. “A very controversial concept, if I remember correctly. Left your salons reeling,” he drawled, “After all, who are mortals to question the Almighty?”

Thomas almost laughed in disbelief, running his slender fingers over the smooth back of Lykos’ hand.

“You’re not God,”

Lykos stood upright, now turned to Thomas’ side, still maintaining a casual air of elegance,

“No, I’m not.” He smiled, tense. “But we are cut from the same cloth. We both exist through the same principle.” He slunk around to Thomas’ front, snaking his arms around the small of his back and pulling them together. His icy breath graced Thomas’ neck. “It is the same principle you preached to your salons years ago,”

The soft crash of the waves against the hull only grew louder in the silence. Lykos looked deep into Thomas’ eyes, as if to drive a message deep into his soul.

“Belief,” Thomas said after some moments, the realisation upon him suddenly. He paused and shook his head, sunlight catching in the corners of his lips. “The abstract is only as real as we allow it to be,”

“And religion?”

“We cannot fathom its reality, but that does not diminish its value,” He said, unsure of his words, but slowly steadying himself. He had not been freely permitted to articulate such thought in years. The ship seemed to rock with his every uncertainty.

“Yes,” Lykos said, “I urge you continue,”

“Faith holds a supreme place in many hearts. I am not one of those many.” Thomas bit his lip, a old thought gathering itself on his tongue. “Still, I am not readily willing to discount the weight of theology in our civilisation.” Thomas turned to Lykos, waiting for the seabirds to quiet. “Through the influence of religion, God lives. If that influence is not real, then what is? God is real, perhaps not in a concrete capacity, but profoundly so in the ideas of our civilisation. Belief is the ultimate power. It has the ability to make and unmake reality,”

The wind blew against his face hard. It chafed his cheeks. He let out a long sigh. He had not expected such thought to write itself in his mind in that manner. A rusty skill, but still functional. An old rush beat to life in his veins. A fire was lit aflame again in his heart. Rusty machinery turned again.

“Yes,” Lykos whispered, taking Thomas’ hand. “Therefore it follows, that if God is real by the power of belief, that we have no real route to discover His presence, and you too have no path to prove _my_ existence, then?”

“As long as I permit myself believe in you,” he began slowly, “no matter if you are a delusion or a holy apparition, you are as real as the divine itself,” Thomas swallowed. “Which means,”

“You’re almost there,” he said, running his hand over Thomas’ calloused palm.

“It means that though I wish you gone and possess the intrinsic power to do so, there is still a reason I believe in you, and thus, cannot let you go,”

“Your reality is fading, Thomas. Better grasp it tight before it slips through your fingers like dust and delusion,”

Thomas clutched Lykos’ hand, roughly. He looked up to his pallid cheeks and sly smirk. His gaze drifted down to his hand again. Slowly, the flesh grew coarse and melted off the bone, falling fast. Thomas watched in horror. He felt his heart against his chest like a trapped bird beating itself to death on his bones. The wind whipped stronger against his face. Rain now came down hard upon the ship.

“You’re no more real than a memory,” he whispered, still holding onto air where he had held Lykos’ hand. Thomas gazed out at the horizon, the red sun now clouded by low fog and harsh rain. As he stared into this abyss, he realised a truly horrifying thought. _We are formed by our pasts. I am no more real than a memory. My past is salt and sand. I am a phantom man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Part Two! I wrote a bunch of this on a trans-Atlantic flight, horribly sleep-deprived, gazing longingly out the window at the picturesque neighbourhoods below. As always, kudos, comments, and feedback (positive or critical) are always appreciated. 
> 
> Next Up: Boston, a Renaissance of sorts, and Thomas rediscovering his humanity.
> 
> Part Three Preview:
> 
> _He would have worked cleaning horse shit in the gutters if it meant he kept his freedom. Perhaps liberty was the truest joy known to mankind. She could feed scraps, yet still, there would be hundreds begging by her door. Oh, great Libertas! He dropped the rag into the grimy basin. Ten more tables to clean. He sighed._
> 
> \- D.


End file.
